“‘—Moreover, we find this work cens … cens-u-rable’—consarn it, but that’s a jawbreaker!—‘for the frequent vulgarity of its language—’”

As I sat there listening, my bemusement at his performance rapidly turned into astonishment, for it did not take me long to recognize that he was reading from a work of my own!—a review that I had lately contributed to Mr. Thomas White’s enterprising new journal, the Southern Literary Messenger.

A realization began to dawn within me. At that moment, however, I was distracted from my thoughts by a lively commotion outside my window, as though from a congregation of chattering schoolboys. Though their words were indistinct, there was no mistaking their tone of excited incredulity.

In the meantime, my visitor continued with his reading. “’If the author wishes to make himself a laughingstock, that is his affair. We see no reason, however, why the public should support him in this undertaking, and we would regard ourselves as remiss if we did not warn the unwary away from such fiddle-faddle.’”

With this sharp, though by no means undeserved, admonition, my review ended—and with it the stranger’s recitation. Looking up from the page, he crushed it into a ball and dropped it unceremoniously onto my writing table.

“Well, sir,” he said, placing his hands upon his hips and regarding me with a challenging air. “I don’t suppose you’ll deny that them disfavorable words was written by you.”

“I would not under any circumstances disavow my opinions,” I coolly replied. “I do, however, insist that you offer an explanation for this remarkable intrusion.”

“Why, if you ain’t figgered that out yet, I don’t suppose you’re as all-fired smart as your fancy speechifyin’ would have folks believe.”

This retort so piqued my anger that—in spite of his superior physique (to say nothing of the debilitating influence which Valdemar’s study had exerted on my overstrung nerves)—I half rose from my seat, prepared to forcibly eject the impudent stranger from my chamber.

At that very instant, however, I heard the patter of approaching feet. Suddenly a tiny figure burst into the room. I recognized him at once as Jimmy Johnston, the youngest son of the merchant whose family occupied the residence adjacent to my own. In his wake followed a half-dozen of his playmates. They crowded into the doorway while little Jimmy gazed upward, his expression suffused with such undisguised wonder that he might have been beholding one of Nature’s marvels: the snowcapped peaks of the mighty Rocky Mountains, for example, or the roaring cataracts of Niagara.

“Is it … is it really you?” the awestruck boy finally managed to stutter.

Emitting a laugh that seemed to originate in the depths of his capacious chest, the stranger leaned down and placed a hand on the shoulder of the gaping lad.

“Right you are, young ’un. I’ll be shot if you ain’t a dang sight quicker than some other folks hereabouts.”